


Do not go gentle into that good night

by benevolentculprit



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22873759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benevolentculprit/pseuds/benevolentculprit
Summary: Duo becomes introspective after his capture and confinscation of Deathscythe. His thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of Heero Yuy.
Relationships: Duo Maxwell/Heero Yuy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Do not go gentle into that good night

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this so long ago when I spent a lot of time in Duo's head space and because I always loved that 1) Heero borrowed Duo's name and 2) he went to rescue him. I kind of left it hanging, and I suppose I could continue with it. Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy. I'm also on tumblr under devotedlyspookysandwich. 
> 
> Title is from the same poem of the same name by Dylan Thomas.

If you expected to find me holed up in a cell corner with a harmonica churning out some sad blues ballad, you'd be wrong.

Over. You see that misshapen lump sprawled out on the floor? Yeah, that's me. 

I may be down, but I wasn't out.

Well, Okay, I was out for awhile.

Man, this is so not how things were supposed to end up. 

How long had I been out--days, weeks? Had enough time passed that they'd forgotton all about me? Not likely. Had Deathscythe already been assimilated, or worse, put to work as a cog to aid the functioning of OZ's evil machinery? Likely. I had to accept this as a possibility, if which was true, meant I may not have much time left myself. I winced. 

I opened my eyes slowly, and gazed blearily forward, struggling to bring my surroundings into focus. I angled my head slightly, the barest movement sending small explosions of pain rippling over my limbs, and I sucked in a deep breath while sinking my teeth into my lower lip, which in turn opened a wound there presumably inflicted by myself in order to stifle any traiterous screams. Should've stayed asleep. Too late now. 

I licked my cracked lips and tasted the bittersweet flavor of my own blood, and carefully I tried to discern what I could through the darkness. What I could see, were artless walls, plain and unfurnished, made of steel--probably reinforced--ah, how cozy. Least my captors had given me the deluxe suite. 

Carefully, I began marshalling the energy to move--talking my tired, beaten, body into it--yes, you'd put up a good fight--or tried to--but no, we can't just lie here face down like yesterday's trash and wait for good ole' Mr. Undertaker, or worse, that hellish shrew with the specs--to come in and read us our last rites. Could at least greet 'em with a grin. 

I felt my right arm twinge while my fingertips began to brace themselves to rise. Routinely, I started to assess the damage. Injuries: Right arm---fine. Left-badly contused. Right leg--likely broken. Left--sore, but tolerable. I inhaled another shallow breath, my lungs contracted, as a sharp tremor of pain radiated through my torso. Three, maybe four, broken ribs. Slight concussion possible, which should account for the mother-of-a-fucking headache I felt. Or more accurately, the fucking hammer beating against my forehead about to cause my eyeballs to burst out of their sockets and pop like balloons. 

I allowed myself a hoarse groan and coughed once, a futile attempt to clear whatever fluid was lodged in my lungs. Taking great measure, I forced myself to rise to my knees, my right leg shouted its protest with a tremor of pain and for a moment I buckled and gagged, watching with distaste as a string of bile escaped my open mouth. When had I thrown up? Absently, I wondered how long I had been lying in a pool of my own vomit. I cringed, realizing the front of my shirt was saturated in the rotten substance and what could presumably be my own dried blood. Great.

How the mighty have fallen.

Rather than lie in my own stinking puke, I hoisted myself up, putting an excruciating amount of weight on my knees, and got to my feet. 

This'll be all over soon. Lame. 

"Still...they could've been more gentle..." I managed to mutter through a weak smile. I pinched my eyes shut for a moment as I felt a fresh wave of nausea wash over me, already tasting the hot, sour bile rising in my throat. I sputtered, almost choked on my own spit, then proceeded to rake the heel of my palm over my mouth. Well, at least I still had my dignity. 

All things considered, I've had worse. 

Groping my way over to the corner, I pressed my back to the wall and gingerly stretched my legs out. I'd already worked up a sweat just crawling across the room, and was now irritatingly aware of the perspiration dripping in my eyes, and my good arm ached with the strain of supporting my other damaged limbs, but it wasn't unbearable. I took a moment to adjust myself, then slowly reached up and swiped the moisture from my brow, peeling off the bandaid I wore over my nose in the process. I tried to think back to when I had put it on--before I had decided it my best bet to set out for outerspace and challenge the wicked henchmen of OZ on my own. It seemed overdue--fitting, just.

Now it just seemed pretty fucking stupid. 

The morning I decided to launch my surprise attack, I got a little surprise of my own. Course, little would be a poor choice of words to describe the monster of a zit I woke up to find smack dab on the front of my nose. Seems like even gundam pilots can't escape some woes of adolescence. Somehow, that was comforting. 

Anyhow, didn't seem to matter much anymore. 

How long had it been? Numbly, I angled my wrist to check the face of my watch. Four days. Too long. I knew I should get up, at least try to come up with some sort of plan, but I couldn't will myself to move. Dead weight. But, I'm not dead yet. At any rate, I could at least go out with a fight. I wonder if they found the knife I kept in my boot. Surely. I tapped the heel of my foot against the floor, and shouldn't have been so surprised to feel the blade's absence. I expected that.

So. My back is against the wall. Literally--I could feel cold steel pushing up against my shoulder blades. Trapped--and I knew it. I was going to die. God, if that didn't sound so dramatic I would have laughed. Or cried. 

Carefully I stretched my legs out and eased forward a bit so I could reach into the inside of my coat pocket. Damn bastards had taken everything--except--they had overlooked--or shown mercy--and left me with at least one of my prized possessions intact. The day before I'd set out on this suicide mission after a unanimous decision to scrap the original hackneyed plan for Operation meteor--that crazy bastard did give me another rather valuable parting gift. 

"Just in case you need an out," Professor G had said, while handing me an unidentified pill. When I looked at him suspiciously, he said while studying me with the one cold, calculating eye I could see from beneath that unruly gray hair of his, "It's cyanide, boy." I smirked, and before I could muster a comeback I was cut off by a dry crackling sound from deep within his throat--the only thing that could ever pass for a laugh outta him. My jaw snapped shut. 

"I'll have none of your lip, boy. Consider it a going away present. You're a quick lad, and you've got some impressive skills but it'll take more than a smart mouth and an itchy trigger finger to challenge OZ--that is, if you even make it to Earth without being caught," and he lingered on the word, eyeing me carefully, and then he uttered softly, "And you don't want to be caught. OZ reserves special measures for leeching information from rebel mercenaries. Make sure you don't do anything that could be, comprising." I stared at him and lowered my brow as I felt a smirk creep its way across my lips. 

"It's gonna take more than that to bring down the God of Death," I said. 

He only grunted--either scoffing at me or accepting my decision, and asked, "What's it gonna be, boy? Death or glory?" In each of his hands held before me, he had one pill, and one cigarette. Lucky Strikes. I recognized the wrapper as the kind I bummed off the other mechanics. His eyes held me, pinning me in place. I extended my hand. In the fainstest show of approval, his smirked softened somewhat, and he said, "Make sure you go out with a bang."

So. That brings me back here. 

And all it took was making an ass outta myself, believing in the impossible--oh, and half a dozen enemy mobile suits. 

"Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light-," I murmured, while placing the cigarette between my lips and clenching my teeth tight.

"Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night-" Slowly, I reached into the inside of my jacket pocket and withdrew a lighter--almost amazed that it too was still there. 

"Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light-" 

I propped my arm on my knee to support its weight and gingerly leaned forward so I could meet the tip of the cigarette to the lighter. "Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night-" 

One strike. Sparks in the dark. My words, muffled by the cigarette in my mouth, began to slow. 

"Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight-" 

Two strikes. Nothing. 

I tried again, without success, as dread, a cold pain, descended from my chest and settled into my gut--like I'd taken a long drink of ice water on an empty stomach. 

I swallowed thickly. 

"Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light..." My words tapered off, and I felt what strength I had left slowly unravel and pool at my legs. I slumped over as my shoulders connected with the wall. Something acrid crept its way up my throat, and for a minute I thought it was just more bile, when I heard a dry croaking noice as a soft chuckles escaped my mouth.

"Can't a dyin' man get a break?" The cigarette began to dangle from my lips, so I reached up and tucked it behind my ear out of habit. In a last volley of wasted effort, I chucked the empty lighter across the room where it landed somewhere in the darkness with a dull, metallic twang. Then there was silence. 

My muscles were already burning with the exertion, forsaking me to my final resting place--crumpled in the corner of cell block who knows fucking what in who knows fucking where and who gives a fuck. No one. 

"Doesn't look good, buddy..." I heard myself mutter, adressing someone who was no longer there, and then I felt a stab of pain greater than dread--regret. Regret at the memory of my dismembered gundam, betrayed into enemy hands. Failure tightened around me like a vice. I exhaled, then lay still. 

"Here lies Duo Maxwell--and all he wanted was a light." 

Man, what a nice little pity fest I got goin' on in here. 

Pray for us sinners in our hour of death. 

It was a phrase snatched from my youth--the memory echoing in my mind in time with the pulse of the blood in my head.

I closed my eyes.

They were waiting for me. The memories always conjured unbidden--lapping around the edges of my consciousness before taking form. Then the claw-like hands of the dead disengaging themselves from the darkness to coil vice-like around my throat. Stealing my breath. Stealing my resolve.

Fire and blood.

This.

I felt her warmth in my hands and the life that was there. The blood slipping through my hands as she slipped away from me.

Is.

"Duo..."

Not.

My breathing hitched in my throat with something else. Some raw, intangible thing that clawed to the surface like a wild animal desperate for freedom.

"May you have God's grace..."

I felt it take shape in the form of a scream torn from my throat.

Happening.

My eyes snapped open and my breathing hitched. My heart was hammering a rhythm in my chest in time with the throbbing in my temple. Feebly, I reached out to cradle my head in my hands--reeling and afraid I might wretch again. I didn't dare close my eyes. Afraid of what I might find there. The sudden sound of the door opening made me jump. I hadn't heard them approach. Fucking great. OZ always has impeccable timing.

But when I looked up there was no OZ lackey standing in the doorway, pointing a gun at me. It was him. Mr. Self-Destruct. Pillager of parts. He of few words and brooding moods. I met his gaze and looked up into cold, steely blue. And a gun. In my face. Jesus fuck, Heero. Can you ever just greet me like a normal person?

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
